


waves crashing on distant shores of time

by arielle



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: F/M, if you will, this is a fix-it adjacent fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-01 13:49:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14521947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arielle/pseuds/arielle
Summary: In another world, she dreams of falling.(if the universe won’t grant them a better ending than oblivion, well, there are other universes and other endings.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afinemess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afinemess/gifts).



> Story is set around 20 years after the end of The Amber Spyglass.
> 
> Title is taken from the score of the Black Mirror episode, "San Junipero."

In her dreams, she falls. The air is filled with gold dust, the swirls and eddies so thick she is nearly blinded. Her hands clutch at struggling flesh, and she knows if she lets go she will be lost.

She falls endlessly. In some dreams, she is drawn to piercing blue eyes, the intensity of them almost dragging her into consciousness.

In some dreams, a voice reaches her, calling out a name that sounds like her own.

Then there are dreams where she knows nothing but the shining dust that surrounds her.

She falls and falls until she wakes, a hollow feeling permeating deep into her bones. She never remembers anything but the lingering memory of gold.

 

* * *

 

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

She nods, waving an impatient hand in the direction of the worried aide. Her heels echo against the linoleum floors of the hallway, each step like a nail pounding into her head. The headaches have gotten worse. She’s had them for as long as she could remember, but they’ve been occurring more and more frequently, to the point where she can no longer hide the pain around other people. The doctors can’t figure out what’s causing them. Physically, nothing is wrong with her. When they suggested (carefully, as if one wrong word would set her off) that the root of the headaches was psychosomatic, she changed specialists and attempted to have their medical licenses revoked.

Incompetence is dangerous. She feels no remorse; guilt is for people who know they’ve done something wrong.

They turn a corner and she finds herself facing a door identical to every other one they passed in the hallway. There is a small glass panel on the door, and she catches a glimpse of wide windows inside the office. The skies are unusually clear today.

“This is the doctor,” the aide says as he raises a hand to knock. “She should be expecting you.”

“Thank you,” she says, smoothing down her skirt. “I can take it from here.”

The aide casts one last glance at her before striding back the way they came from. She doesn’t spare him another look, hurriedly fixing a smile on her face as the door opens, revealing a woman in her late fifties. The lines on her face draw a picture of a life well-lived, and her eyes are bright with curiosity as she looks at her.

“Mrs. Crawford?” She extends a hand, which the other woman takes graciously. “Come in, please.”

“Thank you for meeting with me, Dr. Malone.” She steps inside the office, immediately looking through the room. Papers are piled high on a desk pushed right against a wall, and the shelves crowding the walls not taken up by the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows are crammed with timeworn books vying for space with modern scientific texts. Strange artifacts populate every corner of the office, which doesn’t surprise her. The doctor is known for traveling to far-off places. She is almost tempted to ask about a particular one—a small potted plant on the window sill that is thoroughly unfamiliar to her, but that isn’t the purpose of her visit.

“I hope you forgive me for getting right to the point,” she begins. “Your team has made significant strides in the field of dark matter, and my foundation would be honored to help take your research even further.”

“The Van Zee Foundation, wasn’t it? I’ve heard of it.” Dr. Malone frowns in thought. “Doesn’t it usually focus on aiding charities and relief efforts?”

“We’ve received additional funding that has far exceeded our projected margins. The foundation has enough assets to branch out and provide resources to movements dedicated to progress. We’re in a unique position to aid in humanity’s advancement instead of simply helping it survive.”

She has said similar spiels countless of times before, but she still manages to imbue her words with earnestness. It’s a skill she learned early on in life: if you manage to convince the person in front of you that you care—about them, about their cause, about anything that will make them feel _valued_ , _you_ can get anything you want.

Dr. Malone looks at her closely but doesn’t reply, as if she expects the ensuing silence to cause the truth to come tumbling out of her mouth, the real reason why a socialite would visit a laboratory in the outskirts of London and offer funding to the—still relatively obscure, despite its implications on the laws of the universe as they know it—field of particle physics.

In fact, she’s been following research on dark matter since its existence came to her attention. In her world of old money and glamour, idleness is king, but she’s never taken any pains to hide her more intellectual pursuits. Despite that, she’s kept her interest in dark matter close to her chest. She doesn’t examine her attraction to this ever-present but invisible part of the universe too closely; she cannot explain why she’s so drawn to it, and she abhors anything that doesn’t provide a clear-cut answer.

So she continues to gather information on dark matter, and she continues to ignore the almost physical but inexplicable force that compels her to look into it. But through the years, she’s received the information too slowly, and it comes to her filtered and vetted by numerous academics and bureaucrats too dense to know what part of the data to keep and what part to discard. If her father’s (hers, really; she was in charge of it in all but the name) foundation is directly involved in ensuring that the research is funded, she’ll be able to follow the data more closely and observe the raw findings as they’re discovered.

She doesn’t know what she’ll do with the information once she gets it, but she allows herself to be consumed by the burning desire to simply _know_. Her exploration into dark matter is the only part of herself that isn’t in the tight grip of control she has over all aspects of her life. It’s both freeing and stifling.

She keeps her expression free of any trace of her investment on the subject as Dr. Malone continues to look at her, searching for—what? The doctor’s gaze suddenly strays to the corner of the room, and her eyes widen for a split second before looking at her again.

“Is something the matter, Doctor?”

Dr. Malone shakes her head. “No, but… your name is Marisa, isn’t it, Mrs. Crawford?”

“Yes.” She frowns. She can feel the situation spinning out of balance, and she doesn’t know what to grasp at to keep it still. “But how is my name relevant to our conversation right now?”

The doctor continues shaking her head, looking like someone who knows that the universe has just played a cruel joke on her. “Forgive me. I used to know someone with that name. Or rather… I was familiar with her. Barely.”

She follows Dr. Malone’s gaze sharply as she glances at the empty space beside her again. “Are you sure you’re all right? Perhaps we should continue this meeting at another time.”

Dr. Malone smiles wryly, and her temper flares in response. Is she toying with her?

“Mrs. Crawford… Marisa, can I call you Marisa?”

“Mrs. Crawford is fine,” she responds icicly. Her wedding ring weighs heavily on her finger.

“Of course,” Dr. Malone says, as if she expected that answer.

“You’ll consider the offer of funding?” she asks flatly. The whole encounter has her off kilter, and Dr. Malone won’t stop staring.

“I can’t make any promises,” Dr. Malone says regretfully. “Ever since the last few papers we’ve published, interest on dark matter has increased greatly. We aren’t exactly lacking for funds, and some parties who’ve approached us have more of a vested interest than others. We have to screen them carefully to ensure that their desire for involvement in the research is impartial. I hope you understand.”

She nods stiffly. She understands perfectly. Dr. Malone can look through the foundation’s records all she wants; all she’ll find are assets carefully funneled through the proper channels and delivered to the intended recipients.

“I only ask that you consider it,” she says. “The foundation is acting purely in the name of progress, I assure you.”

Dr. Malone nods. “I will. You have my word, Mrs. Crawford.”

For a moment, she looks like she’s about to say something else. Instead, she holds out a hand for her to shake.

“Again, I appreciate you taking this meeting,” she says, taking the proffered hand. “The foundation will keep in touch.”

Dr. Malone’s eyes are filled with a strange wistfulness as she watches her walk out of the office.

 

* * *

 

Marisa leans against the wall beside Dr. Malone’s office, closing her eyes. She presses a hand against her temple in a vain attempt to dull the throbbing in her head. The meeting unnerved her, and the pain currently burning through the darkness behind her eyelids is muddling her thoughts enough that she can’t pinpoint the exact reason why. Perhaps it is the undeniable truth that the doctor could somehow _see_ her. No, it isn’t that. Dr. Malone sees _through_ her, as if she expects an entirely different person when she looks at her.

Marisa can deal with the doctor playing an entirely different game than she was prepared for. But she has a feeling that Mary Malone isn’t even playing at all.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching, and she opens her eyes to a man staring down at her bemusedly. His gaze is piercing, every line of his body dripping with an arrogance that is born, not learned. Marisa has met countless men who think that the world is their birthright, but no one wears it as naturally as the one standing before her.

“Are you waiting to see Dr. Malone?” His voice reverberates deep into her.

“I've just finished meeting with her,” she replies, quickly stepping back from the wall and dropping her hand to her side. She gestures towards the door. “Please, don’t let me keep you.”

He gives her a nod before rapping on the door sharply, his eyes lingering on her for a moment before he lets himself in.

The door closes behind him with a strange finality, and she’s left standing alone in the hallway as the murmur of voices start up inside.

Eventually, she turns to walk away from the dull white corridors and into the unusually bright day, unable to shake off the feeling that she’s met this man before.

It’s his voice, she decides. She can’t help but think that her name would feel at home on his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is appreciated! I haven't written fic in nearly a decade, so I'm out of practice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward Crawford’s smile falters a little, but to his credit, it returns quickly, albeit colder than it was before. “We’ve met.”
> 
> “Several times, and none of them pleasant,” Asriel says, equally cold.
> 
> Marisa glances back and forth between them, her own smile attempting to drown out the sudden tension between the two men.

“Are you certain it was her?”

Mary Malone and Will Parry are seated outside a small café a few blocks from the hospital Will works at. Anyone who looks closely will notice the air of familiarity between the two that can only come from decades of friendship.

“Yes,” Mary Malone says impatiently, hands cradling her third cup of tea. “As certain as I can be considering I’ve never met her. Mrs. Coulter’s name was Marisa, isn’t it? And her daemon was a golden monkey?”

“Right,” Will says slowly. “But it could just be a coincidence…”

“A golden monkey isn’t exactly a common daemon form. And neither is a snow leopard.”

Will sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it must _mean_ something,” Mary leans forward. “Are they supposed to meet in this world? Do these people have any connection to Lyra’s parents?”

Will stiffens at the mention of Lyra’s name, his eyes flashing with barely contained emotion.

He looks at his watch. He still has half an hour before he needs to resume his shift at the hospital, but he stands up from the table. “It’s been twenty years. These people—whoever they are—are _not_ Lyra’s parents. They’re from our world.

“Do me a favor and let it go, Mary. Please.” He digs through his wallet, leaving a few pounds on the table amidst Mary’s protests. “No matter what happens, no matter what we find out… we can’t go back. You know we can’t. It’s useless to dwell on the past.”

All this talk has accomplished is reopening old wounds that have never truly healed. The years have dulled the pain, but the blunt edge of a knife hurts all the same.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Will.” Mary reaches out and grasps his arm, her grip gentle enough that he can pull away with a shrug, but he stays where he is. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. But please stay. We rarely see each other as it is.”

Will stands still for another moment before retaking his seat with a sigh. He gives her a small smile, and the tension slowly eases between them. Mary leans forward, eager to change the subject.

“So how’s little Elizabeth? I haven’t seen her in months. I heard she’s taken her first steps…”

 

* * *

 

The din of voices quiets down to a murmur when Asriel makes his entrance, whispers trailing behind him as he walks into the room. He is aware of the stares burning holes in his back, but he pays them no mind. Half of these people aren’t worth his time, and if he gets his way, he won’t have to see the other half for a long time after tonight.

The soft glow of the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling feels harsh on his skin—the artificiality of it makes him itch for the light of the aurora reflecting off of the vast expanse of snow in the Arctic.

Asriel can feel the surprise of the guests who recognize him. It is unusual for him to grace any event, let alone one designed for self-congratulation among wealthy donors and greedy social climbers—both groups of people he can’t stand.

His presence here is merely a favor to Dr. Malone. She wants to appease the benefactors who have been clamoring to put a face to the man responsible for half of her research. Full transparency, she says.

Asriel has always resented the royal trappings that have hounded him since birth, choosing instead to isolate himself in expeditions that have grown longer and more dangerous over the years. His constant absence from London and the rumors that always followed his rare returns to the city have given him an air of mystery he has been more than willing to take advantage of.

A figure cloaked in equal parts mystery and notoriety. He couldn’t pretend that his reputation isn’t convenient, even pleasing, at times.

Blonde hair and pale skin catch at the periphery of his vision, and he turns to see a woman surrounded by an enthralled audience. He is just out of earshot, but it’s almost pathetic how the crowd is hanging on her every word, all of them leaning slightly in her direction like sunflowers that can’t help but tilt their faces towards the sun.

He recognizes her immediately. She was standing outside Dr. Malone’s office a few days ago, so distracted that she didn’t notice him until he was almost in front of her. When she looked at him, there was a split second where her face revealed a desperation—for what, he doesn’t know. Then she blinked and he was left wondering whether he saw anything at all.

Dr. Malone refused to tell him anything about her at first, but with some pressing, she revealed that her name was Marisa Crawford. The name didn’t ring a bell until tonight. He is acquainted with her husband, Edward Crawford—the man who currently has an arm wrapped a little too tightly around her waist. One of countless run-of-the-mill, status-seeking politicians; no doubt he asked his wife to curry favor with Dr. Malone. Dark matter seems like an obscure field to take an interest in, but it’s growing in both significance and funding. And if there’s one thing these bootlicking cretins are good at, it’s worming their way into every inch of opportunity that they can grasp at.

Asriel continues watching Marisa Crawford hold court for a few more moments before walking away, something like disappointment sitting low in his gut. The woman is a stranger to him; he has no cause to be disappointed that she failed to meet some vague notion of his that she was somehow more than a politician’s wealthy, vacant wife.

“Lord Asriel? Gracing the unwashed masses with his presence? Color me surprised.”

Asriel turns in the direction of the voice, allowing the corner of his mouth to tilt up in a wry smile.

“I took pity on you, my dear. You’ve asked me to come to one of these things, what, five times? It was starting to get embarrassing.”

Mary Malone huffs, more exasperated than angry. “Well, all my efforts will be wasted if you’re not even going to talk to anyone. I know you can’t stand the people here, but at least try to look like you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.”

“That would be dishonest of me,” Asriel replies, amused.

Mary rolls her eyes. “I swear to God, if I didn’t need those aurora readings…”

“But you do,” Asriel says. “So I’m afraid you have to put up with me for the foreseeable future.”

She opens her mouth to lobby another retort—no doubt a threat to replace him, as if she could find anyone else as capable—a low, musical voice interrupts her.

“Dr. Malone. I just wanted to thank you for letting our foundation contribute to your research.”

Marisa Crawford stands in front of them, her husband beside her. The sound of her approach was concealed by the noise of the crowd, and Asriel ascribes the sudden quickening of his pulse to the unexpectedness of her appearance.

“I should be the one thanking you,” Dr. Malone replies, glancing at the man currently smiling blandly at them. She holds a hand out to him. “You must be Mr. Crawford. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Oh, pardon me. Dr. Malone, this is my husband, Edward Crawford.” Marisa Crawford looks just the right amount of embarrassed at her failure to introduce her husband. “Edward, this is Dr. Mary Malone. She’s heading the research the foundation is funding.”

“A pleasure, Dr. Malone.” Edward Crawford takes her hand in a practiced handshake. “Please, call me Edward.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Edward,” Mary smiles, turning her head to look at Asriel, who has been watching the whole interaction with a bemused expression. “This is Lord Asriel Blackstone—he’s been studying data at the Arctic for our research. We wouldn’t be where we are without him.”

Edward Crawford’s smile falters a little, but to his credit, it returns quickly, albeit colder than it was before. “We’ve met.”

“Several times, and none of them pleasant,” Asriel says, equally cold.

Marisa glances back and forth between them, her own smile attempting to drown out the sudden tension between the two men.

“I’ve met your wife as well,” Asriel couldn’t help but add, his blood running faster at the flash of anger in Marisa Crawford’s eyes.

Edward turns to his wife. “She failed to mention that.”

“Lord Blackstone is mistaken,” Marisa says smoothly, refusing to meet Asriel’s gaze. “He must have confused me for someone else.”

“No one would ever confuse you for someone else, my dear,” Asriel says, noting that Dr. Malone was watching them more with curiosity than alarm.

“Then you must forgive me, but I don’t recall the encounter.” Marisa’s voice is cool as she steps back, taking her husband’s arm. “If you’ll excuse us.”

Dr. Malone looks at him accusingly as the pair walked away.

“You’ve talked to one investor and you’ve already managed to alienate her. Fantastic.”

“All part of my charm,” Asriel retorts, keeping his eyes on Marisa Crawford as she leans in to whisper something in her husband’s ear before leaving his side.

“You don’t really know her, do you?” Dr. Malone asks. Something in her tone makes Asriel turn to look at her.

“Not beyond seeing her outside your office,” Asriel says slowly. “Do you want to tell me something, Mary?”

“No,” she says a little too quickly. “Other than asking you to please behave yourself around the investors.”

“You’re right,” he says, gesturing towards the direction the Crawfords left in. “I should apologize to the lady for bruising her husband’s delicate ego.”

“Asriel,” Mary says warningly. “Be careful.”

“Of what?” Asriel asks, already walking away from her.

Mary Malone doesn’t answer him, simply watching as he strides to talk to Marisa Crawford, who has walked out into the balcony and the cool evening air. A sense of inevitability envelops her. She has seen and experienced enough to know this for what it is—fate. She is helpless to stop it, for its hands have reached through countless of worlds to get to hers, all for two people who, no matter what universe they’ve found themselves in, always seem destined to fall together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bangs her fists on the table* BBC ANNOUNCE THE CASTING FOR ASRIEL AND MARISA YOU COWARDS


End file.
